That drags Martin’s face
Through the mud,
Dragged down with each statue
With the stupid belief
They march with Martin’s legacy
When they barely grace his shadow,
Black Lives Matter
Looking to make history
The way he did,
But lacking the skill or conscience
Or more importantly the brain,
A mob filled with scarecrows
And cowardly lions
And tin men without a heart,
Encourage by ignorant conviction
And self deluded fantasy
As they throw the lynch ropes
Around icons of their enemies
To tear down, never looking down
Into mud to see Martin’s face there, too
Staring up at them,
More in common with Lee
Than this rat pack filled
With black faced scarecrows,
Holding the edge of a rope
In hope to find someone else
They can lynch.
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